Solace Of Summer Moons
by OliviaHills
Summary: 'In retrospective,I'm not sure which is worse; that the man I called brother died by my hand, or the fact that I wasn't there to honor him.' Rick watches as Shane's funeral service is held.


Just a short, angsty piece talking about Rick's state of mind after he admitted to killing Shane.

Written in first person. Feedback is appreciated.

* * *

Shane is dead. And the world around us is just a tad darker.

It had been dark for months now, desolate in hope as our numbers dwindle each day. The farm had become more of a death sentence than a hope, something I should have realized after the bodies—Sophia, Dale, Shane—of all the people we loved began to pile up.

I stand alert, watching the blackness of night as if I could see farther than the front of my hand, looking after these wandering souls like a Southern Moses. I am calm on the outside, as spotless as the Atlanta Sky; inside my head, however, there is a battle. I feel like I can almost hear it. Just the thought of seeing myself in Shane's place, unable to sleep peacefully as the restless, unnerving thoughts of the disease pour through my head and turns me into the husks I see wandering the streets daily, makes my head spin.

It's inside me, just like everyone else.

The night air is still, humid, though the chirping of crickets and howling of wolves pierce the stagnant dusk with short bursts of sound. The fire is weak; its glow barely peeks over the wall, and the shadows of the group are faint. No one speaks. They sit around the pitiful flame, still as statues. Except Laurie.

She sits at the head of the man-made oval, and her lips move. They are such small movements I can't see them, but her murmuring was audible enough for me to pick up bits and pieces.

"Lord, give him strength," she prays; her voice is thick, filled with sorrow, "for he will need you in this crucial time. For he will be—"

Her voice drops an octave. It was a quick exchange of eye contact, but enough to set her off to the fact that I am watching. Her face is wet; she didn't bother to wipe the tears away after she grieved for him.

I cannot grieve, not with her, not with them. I grieve alone.

Laurie continues, and the faces of my failure are illuminated by the firelight.

Glenn sits with Maggie, far from the picturesque Georgian couple; the young woman leans her head against Glenn's shoulder, yet he looks distant, forlorn.

Andrea hides her face in between her legs. She doesn't stir much, but once in a while I'll hear her sniff, and see her back undulate. She weeps silently for him. T-Dog rests close, and pats her back in a display of comfort.

And Carol, Carol who has lost so much in the past few weeks, does not cry. Neither does Daryl, sitting within an arm's length of her. Carol is far away from this place in her mind, much happier with her daughter. Shane's death simply adds to her grievances, and they follow her around like a raincloud. Daryl, crossbow intertwined in his fingers, stares at the fire; in comparison to Carol, he is awake, living in the here and now, honoring a man they once respected as their leader. He looks at me for a moment, with a gaze neither judgmental nor passive, and turns away.

I think I understand that look. It's a stare of empathy, a look that gives his condolences at the fact that they didn't even give me a second thought before giving Shane a service. Everyone grieves, except the person that cared about him the most.

I can only watch from the side.

Burying my face into my palms, the role as lookout has long been abandoned. Against the cold concrete of the wall, looking at the inky plumes of smoke from the burning city, I begin to sob softly. The others are distant; I am distant. Torn between what I did right, and what I did wrong.

I killed a man.

_He was a threat to all of us, you the group—_

He was my best friend.

_He would've killed you if he got a chance—_

The 'funeral' ends. No tent to curl up in, they simply scoot closer to the fire, as some of the couples huddle for warmth. Most faces are covered in tears; his passing came quick, startlingly, for the group. Even for his murderer.

Softly, I weep.

In retrospective, as I watch with bleary eyes as the moon rises, I'm not sure which is worse; that the man I called brother died by my hand, or the fact that I wasn't there to honor him.

* * *

Thanks for reading! Hope I didn't depress you too much:)


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